


Afterglow

by liminalsmith



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Accidental Stimulation, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Clarke isn't helping the situation, Clexa, Clexa Week 2018, Eventual Smut, F/F, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Lexa is too gay to function, Light Angst, Original Character(s), Power Play, Soulmates, Trishanakru, Worldbuilding, a spot of kink, only a little, the glowing forest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-16
Updated: 2018-04-16
Packaged: 2019-04-23 22:26:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14342247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liminalsmith/pseuds/liminalsmith
Summary: I needed a break from writing angst and my hand slipped. I have created a shamelessly self indulgent canon Clexa AU, with plenty of gratuitous worldbuilding, and eventual smut. This fic was originally inspired by the 'accidental stimulation' prompt for Clexa Week 2018. Although it's incredibly late, I hope it's still alright to tag it as such.Lexa and Clarke lead a diplomatic mission to the mysterious Trishanakru. The trouble is Clarke is distracting, Lexa is very very gay, Raven is a natural wonder, their hosts won't stop partying, and the forest is kind of psychedelic.





	Afterglow

The first thing Lexa hears are the drums. Not the deep angry thunder of war drums, but something softer, an invitation to dance, not kill.

It has been a long journey. Many days spent in the saddle, travelling through the lands that all now fall under her _Kongeda_. A large party – fifty-nine in all – warriors and representatives from Trikru, Azgeda, Floukru and other clans. They have been greeted with joy in most places, surly acceptance in just a few. 

Clarke has become a legend, whether she wants to be or not. Her status still pains her – Wanheda, Mountain Slayer, murderer she sometimes calls herself on the bad days. The tattoos she chose to bear in place of kill scars, speak her guilt under Lexa’s fingers and lips on many a night. Lexa understands, but she has long since reconciled to her own position. Raven Reyes still seems amused by the whole exhibition - the best place at table, the deference, the small gifts and gawking children. Lincoln and Octavia are steady silent presences, relaxed but ever on guard. And the twins, Bron and Bran, are always close; her most senior and trusted protectors after the loss of Gustus. 

Overall the progress has the feeling of a holiday more than a diplomatic mission. Or at least what Lexa imagined a holiday may be like, never having experienced one herself.

As they wind closer down the broad forest path, the drums grow louder. The rhythm subtle and infectious. Trishana scouts are justifiably famous for their stealth. How long have they been followed? They must have witnessed their arrival and alerted those at the summer gathering place, without Lexa’s own scouts ever spotting them. She must arrange extra training, perhaps even persuade Trishanakru to share some of their knowledge. It will dent Trikru pride, but that’s no bad thing.

Ridding so close beside her their legs brush almost constantly, Clarke sways easily in the saddle, her body taking on the beat of the drums. When the horns and whistles and bells join in, she smiles over at Lexa. “Think they’re pleased we came?”

“I think they may be.”

Trikova, Lexa’s new horse, has never known real battle, only ever the charges and blows of the practice field. Weary though he is, he senses they are close to their destination, and picks up his hooves, happy. Lexa hopes, with an ache deep under her ribs, that it is always so.

There are excited yells, whoops, trills as they round a bend and come in sight of the camp.

Clarke laughs. “Definitely pleased we came.”

~~*~~

Even though it’s September, warm and full of the breath of summer, the evening comes faster than it did even a week since. Faster still in the depths of the forest. Lexa’s tired travelling party are cared for with speed and efficiency. The horses are taken to be fed and watered, while the human guests are ushered in the opposite direction. The four-year-chief – Andante – steps forward to make his formal welcome, but in view of the clear exhaustion of Lexa’s people, he keeps his words thankfully brief. Andante’s skin is the colour of fine red river clay, his long black hair streaked with more white than Lexa remembers. He reaches out to clasp forearms with Lexa, first in the Trikru way; but then moves forward to touch foreheads for a moment, as is the custom of Trishanakru.

Andante is short, as many of these forest people are. Lexa has to lean down to rest her forehead against his. She stands back to see him chuckling good-naturedly to himself.

“I believe Heda has grown since last I saw her,” he says.

Lexa inclines her head in a ‘maybe’ gesture.

Andante quickly beckons to Clarke and Raven, his other most honoured guests, greets them in the same manner, then ushers them all to break their fast at the long tables laid outside for the evening meal. Lexa glances around, seeking a familiar face in the crowd, but Nuri is not present. 

Andante nods and passes her a plate piled with some kind of braised meat. “The Old One stayed on the Mountain,” he says. “I will get a messenger to carry your words to them.”

 _“Mochof,”_ Lexa tells him.

As the sun sinks in the west, the true wonder of the Trishana is revealed. 

Although Clarke and Lexa spoke often on the journey of the reason the Glowing Forest got its name, Clarke seems utterly entranced as the trees and plants around them begin to light up. She leans into Lexa’s side, their hands find each other below the table, entwine, hold. Clarke whispers her excited comments somewhere between Lexa’s ear and the side of her neck. Despite the hum of conversation, clattering of plates and occasional shouts of laughter around them, Lexa would swear she understands every word Clarke says, could decipher her meaning from the puffs of breath on her skin, the graze of her lips. It warms Lexa to see Clarke this way, ignites a pleasing familiar ache. And even she has to admit their surroundings are more wonderful than she could have imagined. 

Many of the trees shine blue or green or red, their colours growing more brilliant as the night gets darker. Twisting vines, moss, even the grass glows, the lights bobbing and dancing in the gentle breeze. Lexa pours water from a nearby jug and is almost struck dumb in amazement when she realises that it contains the deep shimmering blue of a stormy sky, with green highlights swirling in its depths. Clarke’s face registers the innocent awe of a child seeing their first rainbow. And then the moths come, fluttering and swooping around the few lanterns burning along the length of the table. Their wings and bodies are pure iridescent blue and purple which appears to pulse as they move. The mealtime chatter stops as people simply pause to watch them. Everything hangs in stillness. A collective held breath. Stars circle above the leaf canopy. Then as quickly as the moths appeared they vanish again deeper into the forest. 

Bron seems to have fallen asleep face down on the table. Nobody appears to mind. Bran leans his huge arm on his brother as he drains his cup and stares around, strokes his beard, smiles. 

Raven Reyes wanders off to examine a bush which glows a vibrant blue. Octavia trails her at a subtle distance, always a protective presence. Raven pulls out a notebook, flips through pages, begins to scribble rapidly. 

Lexa is so weary she barely even takes in their quarters and is only half undressed before Clarke hauls her into bed and wraps around her back, nuzzling into the nape of her neck and sliding a hand under her shirt. They sleep like the happy dead that night, and do not dream.

~~*~~

Early next morning, although not offensively early – Clarke may dispute Lexa’s assessment – the talks begin.

As a rule, the Trishanakru are a wandering people. They live in small mobile groups of between fifteen and thirty, follow the food or the game animals, their footsteps light in the forest. But there are times they have a need to gather, to trade, to agree laws, settle disputes, to find mates or reunite with friends. Therefore, they keep a summer camp for half the year, then move to their highly sheltered and secret winter camp for the other half. They come and go as needed. Even Lexa has no idea where these friendly but secretive people vanish to during the winter months. Of all the clans this is the one she knows least about, simply because it is not to be known. 

Their forest has sheltered them well since world’s end. The glowing trees and weird animals are uncanny enough to scare most people into staying away. There were tales of ghosts and angry spirits, told with relish around many fires. Trishankru became masters of illusion, guerrilla warfare along their borders. Powdered hallucinogens blown over trespassers, that left them reeling and terrified. A tiny and silent poisoned arrow in the neck for the more persistent. In this manner they remained mostly safe and undisturbed by the more warlike clans. Only during the time of the previous Heda, did they choose to make contact, on their own terms. 

However, one thing that everybody knows is that Trishanakru enjoy putting on a show. To them every moment of life is considered valuable, sacred, potentially ecstatic, and a damned fine excuse for a ceremony.

The summer gathering is set up in a circle, and as much business as possible takes place out of doors. In the centre of the camp is a fire, and around this fire the talks are conducted.

Lexa, Clarke and Raven are seated together on a low bench, presented with garlands of leaves and flowers, and provisioned with drinks and snacks. To each side the representatives from the other clans receive the same treatment. There are introductory speeches (in Trigedasleng, for the sake of courtesy) from Andante, Treb - looking sour as ever – and a burly man that Lexa doesn’t know. 

Then a musical interlude.

Lexa isn’t sure if she should regret or be grateful for the fact that Raven Reyes has been seated between Clarke and herself. The pull that she feels towards Clarke has not slackened during the past three years, and something about the relaxed state she feels in this place makes her longing to touch her even more potent. It is…inconvenient.

The morning passes. These discussions are a dance of words and ideas as each side sounds out the other. Occasionally someone throws another log on the fire. 

Lexa plays her role well enough by all accounts. She is fully aware of the importance, the political significance of these talks – after all, she is the one who arranged them - but a tiny selfish part of her wishes it was over already. Keryon, she’s as bad as young pup who must be shooed away from innocent furniture and people’s legs, only all she wants is -

Clarke is on her feet again, making some point about strengthening ties between the clans, creating better trading links. But all Lexa can concentrate on is the presence she exudes when she gathers up the full powers of her position. The strength and passion she uses to sway people with her words. The low roughness of her voice. 

Lexa shifts uncomfortably in her seat. 

Raven shoots her an inquisitive look, arches an eyebrow. 

Lexa ignores her.

Raven smirks, mutters, “Try to keep it in your pants, Heda,” in Gonnasleng.

Lexa ignores her harder.

Clarke is gorgeous, garlanded and glowing. It does not help that she’s taking every opportunity to cast weighted glances at Lexa.

Treb rises to make yet another point of order. Her voice is high and commanding in its own way, pitched to carry long distances. There is rage in her pale pinched face as she speaks of the danger of trusting outsiders. Lexa bristles and empathises in equal measure. 

Clarke offers Treb a thoughtful response, respect clear in her tone and the way she holds herself. Lexa can’t help but be impressed by how far she’s come, wonders if she too sees a mirror in Treb’s anger, in her fear. 

Before Clarke can retake her seat, there is a minor disturbance off to the left and a toddler with a scruff of bright ginger hair dashes into the circle, babbling. The child stumbles and stares around, suddenly aware that her _nomon_ is not there. Three foot nothing of bravado and bad coordination crumples into tears in an instant. Clarke rushes over and scoops her into her arms, just as her anxious and embarrassed _nomon_ catches up; still clutching the bird she must have been plucking when her daughter decided to go exploring. Clarke ducks her head to say a few quiet words to the sniffling child before handing her over. Lexa has the worrying sensation her heart might explode.

Order restored, Clarke sits. Lexa swallows hard, endeavours to regulate her breathing and focus on what they are actually here for. Three years since the Mountain, and two since they were officially joined, Lexa’s desire for her houmon is as powerful as ever. There’s gentleness to it now perhaps, cast over them by a time of relative peace, but as they heal together their bond only deepens. 

The talks continue back and forth for hours. The Trishanakru delegation serious but almost playful in their stance. Only Treb is intent on shooting barbs like those tiny poisoned arrows. Raven seems willing to enter into the spirit of it, seeing their circuitous logic and almost random tangents as an enjoyable challenge for her eternally whirring brain. Clarke is at her most subtle, manoeuvring and humouring and winning friends as if she was born to her position. But Lexa is sorely distracted and seemingly unable to drag herself back on course, even with all the willpower she possesses. This is the joy and the curse of life with Clarke Griffin. Lexa has an ache in desperate need of easing, and there is only one cure.

~~*~~

From Lexa’s point of view, it is a deep misfortune that the Trishanakru love to feast; and after the talks conclude for the day that is exactly what they do. The food is wonderful, savoury and sharpened with herbs, but Lexa barely tastes it.

As evening descends into night the full uncanny beauty of the forest surrounds them again. Birds call lonely through the trees. The table lanterns crackle and hiss and dribble thin trails of beeswax. The moths visit and depart. Lexa receives a message from Nuri, which fills her with a fondness she rarely allows, and dictates a reply for the lanky messenger to return with. 

But feasts dictate a degree of social mingling which means that Clarke is not by Lexa’s side, and it leaves her feeling stretched thin and restless. Toying with her dagger and longing for escape.

Her warriors seem in high good spirits. Bron and Bran are nearby swapping stories with a couple of Trishana scouts. Octavia is half draped over Lincoln’s giant frame as he smiles gently. Raven is in animated conversation with a chubby shaven-headed person that Lexa doesn’t recognise. A statuesque Azgeda woman is complaining about the heat to anyone who will listen. And Clarke is charming Andante, judging by how loudly he’s laughing. Lexa is weaving her way towards them through the throng of replete and merrily inebriated people, with the express intention of grabbing her houmon and excusing them from the gathering, when at the last second, she is cornered by Treb.

Clarke witnesses the whole disaster. She excuses herself from her own conversation and Lexa experiences a brief wave of relief; but instead of coming to rescue her unlucky partner, she throws Lexa a meaningful look and heads towards their quarters with an extra wiggle in her step. Lexa silently rehearses every expletive and obscenity she knows.

Treb is curiously lacking in humour for one of her clan. She is, however, a mistress of obscure points of tradition and order.

By the time Lexa reaches their bed, Clarke is fast asleep, clutching a pillow to her stomach, with her knees drawn up. Lexa sinks down on the edge of the bed, hands fisted in the covers, and sighs, shakes her head. She lies beside her, close but not touching. Up amongst the curved branches of the roof, a spider is weaving a web that shines delicate violet. The sleep soft scent of Clarke mixes with the smells of forest and cured furs and whatever resinous thing it is Trishanakru burn to keep the biting insects away. In the distance someone is singing accompanied by a howling dog. 

_“Niron,”_ Lexa whispers.

For many nights each month Clarke still struggles with insomnia and night terrors. Often Lexa has comforted her, guided her back to the present, loved her nightmares away; just as Clarke has done the same for her. Lexa watches over her for a few minutes, quiet in the dim lamplight, before she undresses and slides naked beneath the covers. The warm ache in the pit of her stomach has migrated lower, is turning needier, but Lexa wouldn’t wake her for the world. 

Clarke whimpers, her face twisting, body tensing as she fights whatever she is dreaming. 

Lexa wraps her arms around her, as best she can with a pillow in the way, traces soothing patterns over her shoulders and back. “Hush, love,” she murmurs. “I’m here. I’m here, and I promise I’m not leaving.”

~~*~~

Day two.

Waking up with Clarke is a kind of grace. Lexa wonders if she will ever become used to it, ever take it for granted. She doubts it. Hazy yellow light filters through the roof coverings stretched over expertly bent branches. It highlights a few strands of Clarke’s bedraggled hair, the strong curve of her brows, the tip of her nose. Their bodies have become entangled in sleep, Clarke’s leg and one of her arms flung heavily over Lexa, Clarke’s head resting on her shoulder. The further Lexa surfaces from her drowsy state the harder it’s becoming to ignore the warm pressure of Clarke’s leg pressing between her thighs, and her growing desire for release. 

They have time.

Lexa cranes her neck until she’s able to drop gentle kisses on Clarke’s face – her forehead, the soft bristle of an eyebrow, the lift of her cheekbone. Clarke stirs, her lips quirk into a slight smile. Lexa kisses the cleft of her chin, nuzzles her nose. “Morning.”

Clarke blinks then squeezes her eyes shut again. “Ugh. What? When did morning happen?”

“When the sun came up,” Lexa tells her, a smile in her voice.

Clarke groans and tries to burrow her face into Lexa’s shoulder. “No. I don’t accept that.”

Lexa dips down until she can ghost her lips over Clarke’s. “How about now?”

“Nope,” Clarke says before pressing in for another, firmer kiss. 

Lexa’s free hand winds its way into Clarke’s hair, pulling her closer, silently asking for more. Clarke’s lips part, the tip of her tongue teasing. There’s already wet heat at the apex of Lexa’s thighs, and her nipples are almost painfully hard. She whimpers deep in her throat before she manages to pull back and ask, “How about now?”

“Well, your argument is quite convincing,” Clarke grins, “but…”

“But?” Lexa asks, arching her hips in a slow grind, her own tensed thigh pressing into the hot slickness between Clarke’s legs. 

“I…I need you to tell me more.”

“More?” Lexa’s chest fills with a warm glow, a kind of peaceful triumph. She pushes up and flips them easily, landing on top of Clarke in a tangle of sheets, her own bodyweight balanced on her hands. She sinks down, slow, luxuriating in the press and slide of skin on skin, the light sheen of sweat, the widening of Clarke’s eyes – such a dark blue right now – as she looks up at her. “Like this?” she asks, guiding Clarke’s legs to wrap around her, and pushing down and up into Clarke’s heat with a lazy roll of her hips.

“Oh, god – fuck,” Clarke moans, her legs gripping harder, ankles locked, her blunt nails dragging down Lexa’s back. 

“I want you,” Lexa tells her, dipping to kiss a damp trail along Clarke’s collarbone; her hips beginning to pump of their own accord, pressure building in the core of her, in the base of her spine. “I want -”

A loud horn blares outside. Close. Lexa and Clarke freeze. 

Lexa is instantly alert, tumbling out of bed, spilling the most heartfelt apologies as she drags on her pants and coat and boots. Something cold and angry in the pit of her stomach. Have they been betrayed?

The horn blares again, and again, before breaking off in a high parping wail.

“Shit shit shit,” Clarke growls, fumbling with buttons and ties and hopping up and down as she tries to force bare feet into her boots. “It’s morning. I’m convinced. Holy fuck.”

There’s not a thing Lexa can do to tame her hair. She grabs her sword and rushes off to find out if the camp is under attack. Clarke brings up the rear, part storm cloud part woman, brandishing a large knife. They run into some of their own party looking scared, confused and dishevelled. They appear even more scared when they see Clarke. Lexa does her best to calm them – after all, they do not want to charge into a friendly camp waving weapons if there is no cause for alarm. Bron and Bran both have beards resembling an exploded haystack. Octavia isn’t wearing pants, and Lincoln’s shirt is on inside out, but Lexa decides not to mention it.

The leader of the Azgeda delegation barrels up waving an axe. His bleary eyes contrasting with the thick facial scars which serve to give him a permeant snarl. “What the fuck is going on?” he demands, glaring around.

Lexa sets her feet and checks her grip on her sword, stares him down.

“Respectfully,” he grunts, dipping his head.

“I don’t know,” Lexa says, directing her words to the whole motley crew, “but we will find out without doing anything undiplomatic. Clear?”

_“Sha, Heda.”_

United they stalk towards the source of the noise. 

The happy babble and bursts of laughter coming from the heart of the camp seem to indicate that they are not in fact under attack. Lexa calls a halt and orders her warriors to sheathe their weapons. 

Yes, even Clarke. Especially Clarke.

~~*~~

As it turns out, a rare a very sacred animal has been sighted for the first time in years. Cue more ceremony, singing and celebration.

Lexa mutters darkly into her bowl of porridge and stabs a lump of un-melted honey with her spoon, but Clarke is fascinated. Even as she’s still popping fruit into her mouth, she pulls out the leather-bound sketchbook, which Lexa had gifted her for this trip, and begins to dash off rapid drawings of the events. Lexa will never get over the utter focus with which Clarke draws, the way she can capture movement and detail in so few lines. She is smitten by Clarke’s happiness. 

The Trishanakru consider the sighting a propitious sign. As talks continue Treb, sits peering into the central fire, alert but quiet. 

Raven comes into her own, somehow managing to charm them all with her plans. She limps back and forth, too animated to remain seated, painting vivid images of how the trade of specific plants and rocks from the forest will help her construct a safe lighting system for Polis, and possibly elsewhere. A system which doesn’t rely on lamps and flaming torches to light settlements largely constructed of timber. Raven speaks of bioluminescence, phosphorescence, about the genetic mutations and chemical reactions that give the Glowing Forest and its creatures their unique nature. She rhapsodises about what it could mean to share a portion of that beauty and wonder throughout the _Kongeda._

Lexa concludes Raven Reyes is a natural wonder all by herself. A deeply annoying and unpredictable natural wonder.

The treaty is successfully agreed. 

Smiles and laughter, hugging, arm clasping and back slapping, as all those involved in the talks come together and the good news spreads throughout the camp. A few happy Trishanakru touch foreheads, then rub noses.

Clarke nods towards them, eyes narrowed in thought. “Why do only some of them do that?” she asks.

“The nose thing?”

“Mmm.”

“According to Andante,” Lexa tells her, “that is for those you love.”

Clarke laces her fingers with Lexa’s, pulls her closer. “Interesting.”

~~*~~

Their horses are grazing peacefully in a large enclosure. Trikova’s head lifts as soon as Lexa arrives. He gives a quiet whiney and trots over to where she’s waiting for him.

“ _Hei_ , my brave one.” Lexa says, patting the glossy black side of his neck.

Trikova dips his head and noses at Lexa’s coat pockets.

“You looking for treats, huh?” she asks, stroking his mane. It’s a little tangled and she wishes she had her brushes with her.

Trikova headbutts her gently in the chest and snorts, nostrils flaring. 

“Alright, patience,” Lexa tells him, fishing an apple from her deepest pocket. “Here.” She offers it to him, smiles at the velvety lips and moist breath on the palm of her hand as he takes it. The apple vanishes in a couple of bites. Trikova noses at her clothing again, sniffing hopefully. “I’m afraid that’s all I have,” Lexa says, leaning into his sweet grass scent and animal warmth before stepping back. “And now I must return to the humans.”

Trikova stamps a front hoof and flicks his ears in displeasure.

“I know, brave one,” Lexa says. “Me too.”

~~*~~

After the evening meal there is dancing. Benches and tables are shifted to leave as much space as possible. The drums start beating from all directions at once, soon joined by whistles, fiddles, and slightly raucous voices. The rhythms and tunes are infectious, joyful; but Lexa does not dance. Really – no.

They bring out barrels, jugs and skins full of the clan’s favourite – and most infamous – drink. _Trippahsbru_. To Lexa’s limited knowledge, it’s made from a potent combination of special mushrooms and fermented wild honey. It’s strongly alcoholic, mildly psychoactive, and quite hallucinogenic if drunk in enough quantity. It glows a garish orange.

There is much imbibing. Swigging. Carousing and quaffing. Trishanakru and Trikru whirl around the dancing place together, hand in hand, moving in pairs or threes or wide linked circles. Their feet pound the earth in time with each other as they stomp and leap. Most of Lexa’s people tower at least a head taller than their hosts, but nobody seems to mind. A few children, who must have sneaked out of bed, dash about in the cheerful mayhem, before being herded together by some of the more sober revellers and escorted home.

Lexa drinks in moderation, the same cup held and sipped over maybe three hours. Mostly she keeps to the edges of the gathering, content to observe the celebrations and keep company with her own thoughts. This is the kind of situation she was never good at. Give her an assembly to address or an army to lead and she can do so; but this simple thing – a party – she’s quite lost. Costia had always known what to do when Lexa was so discomforted. Tease her gently, before coming to join her in a quiet corner, or helping her sneak away entirely once she had played her part. Clarke is the same for that point of view. She knows how to play the part, better than Lexa ever has. She moves smoothly through these gatherings, laughing at the right times, drinking and dancing and flirting just enough but never too much. Lexa half envies her ability. But always she will seek Lexa out through the night, a small touch here, a reassuring look there, and eventually they will manage to escape to a place that is just them. There Lexa finds her equilibrium again.

Tonight, however, neither Clarke nor Raven seem to know the meaning of moderation. They are monumentally drunk. Perhaps they were lulled into indulging too much by the sweet honey flavour and lack of bite. Lexa fears Raven may cause a diplomatic incident, but when she clambers unsteadily onto a table and begins to sing, the Trishanakru appear quite charmed. As Clarke hoists herself up beside Raven, flings and arm around her shoulders and begins to harmonise, badly, Lexa watches with horrified fascination.

“Your people are having fun,” Andante says, appearing silently in the shadows. 

Lexa does not jump. “Yes,” she agrees.

“And you?”

“Me?”

Andante gives her an appraising look, eyes glinting. “May I speak plainly?”

Lexa nods, frowns. “As far as I’m aware, you always do.”

“Treb is right to fear.” Andante pauses, drinks deep from his cup before continuing. “Once, all I knew of the world outside this forest was ugliness - betrayal, deceit, killing for the sake of it. But you, my Heda, are trying to forge a new world, one I wish my people to have a place in.”

Lexa allows herself a slight smile, raises her wooden cup in acknowledgement of Andante’s words, and takes a sip.

“I am happy today,” Andante continues, returning her smile. “Our talks conclude in harmony and celebration. Again, you have achieved the unthinkable, a trade treaty with Trishanakru, and yet…” He executes a complicated shrugging gesture in Lexa’s direction.

“I am happy, Andante,” Lexa tells him. “Truly.” 

Andante nods, drinks, stares out at the firelight and the dancing throng. “I would not presume to know what it is to carry the world on your back day after day and remain tall…”

Lexa coughs.

Andante purses his lips but his eyes twinkle. “Laugh if you wish,” he says. “In another year my time as leader will end, and I can lay down my burden. It is a blessing. But you – you must carry yours forever.”

“It is our way.” Lexa sighs, allows her shoulders to sag a fraction. “It has always been our way.”

Andante turns and catches her gaze, holds it, all sincerity. “Remember this then – Heda is great, but she is great only because of Lexa. It is Lexa who makes this Heda what she is. Be kind to her.”

“I…”

“Go and visit Nuri tomorrow – no arguments, Lexa – they will be glad to see you.”

There really is no point in listing all the things she should be doing tomorrow, the tasks she must oversee, the preparations for their return journey to Polis two days from now. Andante was chosen chief for good reason, and Lexa has no wish to spend the next hour tangled in debate with him. She drains the last drops from her cup, rolls it between the palms of her hands. “I will go. Thank you, Andante.”

Andante flashes her a broad grin, begins to turn away. “And about Clarke…”

“Yes?”

“I like her.”

~~*~~

As the night continues the dancing and singing grow even wilder, more abandoned. The forest itself seems to pulse in time with the drums. The colours ebbing and flowing with incredible speed. Some people whirl in circles, heads thrown back, arms flung up to the sky as their feet stomp the earth. Others sway and swing together in couples or larger groups that resemble a friendly scrum as much as a dance.

Floukru attempt to build a human pyramid.

Heat builds. People begin stripping off their shirts and bindings. Trishana and Lexa’s party alike. Soon there is a sea of glowing, sweaty, writhing bodies; flexing muscles daubed with paint or covered in tattoos. Raven’s shirt gets whirled above her head and flung from the top of the table she’s claimed as her personal kingdom. Bron loses his shirt soon after that. When Lexa notices Clarke begin to unbutton her own shirt, she feels driven to intervene, but is prevented by the surging crowd. She makes a final desperate lunge but is thwarted by her inability to fly. 

Watching Clarke dance shirtless and free of care – hips gyrating, breasts close to escaping their coverings – is a new and wonderous form of torture. When Clarke catches her eye and smiles her private wicked smile, Lexa almost swallows her own tongue.

Gradually, the revellers begin to disappear hand in hand from the firelit gathering. Lexa watches Octavia and Lincoln help Raven down from the table, where she seemed to have decided to sleep, and head off arm in arm. Bron and Bran have found another pair of twins to carouse with, until finally Bron departs with the male twin and Bran with his sister. They bump fists and yell loudly before weaving off in different directions.

Clarke swings by Lexa and, with surprising strength and a fierce grin, yanks her out of her reverie and into the dancing circle. She wraps around Lexa so close there is not even a blade width between them. As Clarke moves to the beat, her naked skin hot and sweat-slick beneath Lexa’s palms, Lexa is painfully aware of the mounting pressure between her legs. Clarke does something sinful with her hips, lets out a throaty giggle against Lexa’s neck, and follows it with a kiss and a quick press of teeth. Lexa fears she may combust. 

“Clarke,” she begins quietly, “I think we should go back to our quarters.”

Clarke grumbles something about ‘happy’ and ‘pretty lights’, into Lexa’s shoulder.

“Clarke…”

At that moment Clarke’s hands slide from their clasp around Lexa’s waist and find a path to Lexa’s ass.

“Clarke, your hands -” Lexa begins.

Clarke squeezes and pulls Lexa hard against the delicious curves of her body, their hips grinding in a most inappropriate manner for a public place.

Lexa lets out an undignified yelp of, “Hands!” and disengages to a safer distance. “It’s definitely time for bed,” she tells Clarke, eyebrows stern.

Clarke’s grin becomes positively wolfish. _“Sha, Heda.”_

She drags Lexa back to their quarters at a quick march, only once becoming distracted by a particular patch of moonlight and lying down to pet it. Door closed on the world outside, Clarke leaps on Lexa with all the eager grace of an intoxicated bear cub. Lexa easily flips her onto the bed. Clarke lies spread-eagled, giggling and gesturing for Lexa to join her. 

“My love, I want to be with you so much,” Lexa tells her, hands clasped behind her back where they can’t possibly decide to get up to anything. “But not like this. It wouldn’t be right.”

Clarke denied becomes morose. She pouts and sulks. Lexa finds it endearing. Perhaps she is a little drunk after all. There’s a colourful blanket folded on the huge chest at the end of their bed, Lexa picks it up and chances a step closer, holding it out as a warm and snuggly peace offering. “Clarke -”

But Clarke flinches at the sound of her own name. She jerks into a sitting position, curls in on herself, brings her knees up to her chest and wraps her arms around them. Like this the blackwork tattoos which cover her shoulders and coil down her spine show stark against her skin. 

Lexa’s heart twists painfully in her chest. “Clarke?”

“You hurt me,” Clarke spits, her eyes glimmer with dull rage, confusion.

“I did,” Lexa agrees. She sits at the far end of the bed, movements deliberate and non-threatening; rests her elbows on her thighs, hands linked between her knees, head bowed, bone weary all of a sudden. “I’m sorry. I wish it could have been otherwise.”

“I wanted…” Clarke takes a harsh gulping breath as if forcing down tears. “I wanted to hate you. For so long I wanted to hate you, until I thought I’d fucking die of it. I tried and tried but I never really could. That’s the joke, Lex. I couldn’t even...”

Lexa blinks away her own tears. Sometimes past wounds reopen, she is reconciled to it so long as Clarke is with her. “I think perhaps I have hated myself enough for both of us,” she says. She hopes it’s enough.

~~*~~

The hallucinogenic properties of _Trippahsbru_ have not been exaggerated. The darkness Clarke plunged into is thankfully brief. Soon she returns to flirting, giggling, chatting to a small carved table, and trying – unsuccessfully – to lick her own elbow. She’s incorrigible. Lexa manages to wrestle the blanket around her when she begins to shiver in the midnight chill. She holds Clarke close and safe, distracts her by letting her play with her fingers, stroking her hair. In a fit of desperation, she sings her all twenty-one verses of a ‘comic’ drinking song she’d picked up in her dreams – more by osmosis than design – from one of the former Commanders. This is the kind of thing nobody warned her about when she became Heda. Clarke makes her sing it three times.

It’s quiet now. The drums no longer pound. The camp is sleeping. Only the wind sighs and night creatures call and churr. 

In this phase of her mushroom induced journey Clarke is calm. Her head heavy on Lexa’s shoulder. She simply stares into space, up into the curved roof of their shelter, the glow around the edges of the shadows. Her pupils have grown to eclipse her irises, just a corona of vivid blue left around the rims. Clarke’s face is full of wonder as she describes the patters of light which only she can see. The delicate webs which connect every living thing, the pulses which pass along them. Lexa listens, entranced, and presses gentle kisses into her houmon’s tangled hair. Time loses all meaning. Finally, Clarke heaves herself onto her side and stares at Lexa, her eyes glossy with unshed tears. She reaches out a trembling hand and caresses the shell of Lexa’s nearest ear with utter reverence. “So tiny,” she whispers, “so perfect,” and promptly passes out.

~~*~~

On day three, Clarke is hungover, embarrassed and sorry.

Mist is rising as the earth heats with the new day. People pick their way through the camp at a slow shuffle, retrieving items of clothing discarded the night before. The ground-cloud and woodsmoke from many cooking fires render them ghostly. Lexa’s reminded of the aftermath of battle, her jaw tenses, for a moment the scene is one of scavengers and healers walking the field. Then a few Trishanakru at a nearby bench strike up a cheerful song. It appears to be about hangovers. 

“Wow,” Raven remarks, almost raising her head from her hands, “they really do have a song for every occasion.”

Clarke groans and huddles over her bowl of sweet tea. “I’m never drinking again.”

Raven snorts and flicks a nut at Clarke’s head. “Right. I guess you’re also gonna become celibate and go live in a cave?”

“Screw you Rae.”

“You wish, Griffin. No offence, Heda.”

“Seriously, Raven, I swear I’m never doing this again.”

“Mmm-hmm,” Raven says, pulling her hood over her head and burying her face in her hands.

“Rae?” Clarke says, nudging her friend’s shoulder.

“Say something nice at my funeral, ‘kay?” Raven mutters, and lapses into silence.

Lexa chews a hunk of bread with dried fruits baked into it, thoughts settling back into the here and now. Whatever else happens she is grateful to have seen a time of peace. And today she and Clarke are as free as they will ever be to do as they please. She rubs comforting circles over Clarke’s back, Clarke leans into her touch. 

Excited dogs bounce and yip and beg for table scraps. Gangs of children laugh and yell with no concern for the sore heads of the adults. 

Andante passes by and inclines his head with a conspiratorial smile. “May all the blessings of this shining day be upon you and yours, Heda.”

“And you, Andante,” Lexa tells him. “Thank you.”

~~*~~

Twenty minutes - and two more bowls of sweet tea – later, Lexa leads a grumbling Clarke out of camp, along a broad well-trodden track into the forest.

Even in daylight this place is far removed from home, filled with unfamiliar scents and sounds. Trikru and Trishanakru are both peoples of the trees but born of very different places. After a while wandering hand in hand Clarke perks up and starts to make occasional comments and ask questions. 

Soon a smaller track branches off to the left. It’s marked as special by an elaborate pictograph cut into the trunk of a fallen tree. Clarke laments being too hungover to remember her sketchbook. The track grows rougher and more winding, leading them into a gorge with a little stream burbling through it. Towering walls of rock loom above them, so tall they almost blot out the thin blue sliver of sky over head. It gives Lexa the plunging sensation of the world turned upside down. At the far end of the gorge narrow steps have been cut into the rockface. So many steps, smoothed and dipped in places from years of passing feet.

They climb. Up and up and up. Lexa does not find this endless stairway over taxing, years of training and harsh discipline have turned her body into a powerful tool; one that endures. But before long Clarke is panting and swearing under her breath.

“So, are you going to explain where we’re heading yet?” Clarke wheezes. “I’d like to know the myocardial infarction I’m about to have was worth it.” 

Lexa slows her pace. “Would you like me to carry you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Lex. Just tell me where the hell we’re going?”

“Alright…”

They round a jagged outcrop of grey rock and find themselves on a small platform, four paces across. At one side a little waterfall splashes into a trough cut into the cliff. Clarke lets out a sound of relief and flashes Lexa a delighted grin. They stop and drink. Clarke cupping water in her hands and slurping thirstily.

Lexa drains the waterskin they shared on the way, then becomes mesmerised watching the way Clarke’s throat works as she swallows.

Clarke straightens, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, takes a long breath. “So?” she asks. Wet hair is flattened to her forehead and glistening with drops of water. Her lips plump and shining. A sheen of sweat on her collarbones, and her shirt clinging like - 

“Hmm?” Lexa blinks, startled. “Oh, yes?”

Clarke smirks. “You were about to explain why we’re here.”

Lexa sets about re-filling her waterskin. “We are going to visit Nuri,” she says, careful to avoiding ogling Clarke, “someone of great importance to Trishanakru…and to me. When I first became Heda, Nuri was their ambassador to Polis. Years before that they had been the four-year-chief. They are wise, kind and someone I wish for you to meet.” She seals the skin bottle and hangs it back on her belt.

“A friend?”

“I do not know how to answer that, Clarke,” Lexa says, a little rough, staring out at the massive scar of the gorge. At the scrubby trees dotted along the cliffs, growing from nothing but a sprinkle of soil and the sheer rock. “I think you understand why.”

Clarke wraps her arms around Lexa’s waist from behind, squeezes gently. “Yeah, I do, love. I’m sorry.”

Lexa accepts the embrace, lays her own hands over Clarke’s. “The Trishanakru, they tell stories about Nuri, the Old One. They say that Nuri was born before the bombs fell, that Nuri helped the forest learn to glow.”

“That’s…um. What do you think?”

Lexa considers for a while. A cooling breeze wafts over them. The waterfall rushes and patters into the trough. A bird of prey circles high above, gliding on air. “I think that people love to tell tales,” Lexa says, “and whatever the truth of the matter, Nuri is not saying. All I know is that they have been here for as long as anyone can remember, and I wouldn’t be surprised if they are still here long after we are all dust.”

~~*~~

By the time they reach the top, Clarke is panting, flushed and dripping sweat. Lexa’s limbs feel warm and loose, pleased with the exercise after three days of relative idleness.

Clarke leans over, hands braced on her knees. “Well that was fun,” she says, deadpan.

“It was,” Lexa agrees. “I thought you would prefer climbing to taking the elevator.”

Clarke’s head whips up like a bow string releasing. Sudden murder in her gaze. “There’s a fucking elevator?”

“Of course. Nuri insisted. Not all Trishanakru can climb this far.”

“Why?” Clarke enquires, voice a dangerous rasp, “didn’t we take the elevator, dearest?”

Lexa stands tall and resists the urge to edge backwards, unsure if she should be amused, aroused or afraid. “It takes four people to hoist it,” she points out in her most reasonable voice. “We had no need of it, so I didn’t ask.”

And just like that the murder-light leaves Clarke’s eyes. She still looks annoyed, but infinitely fond. “I love you,” she says. “Now, there had better be food at the end of this journey.”

~~*~~

The narrow passage gives the impression of entering somewhere mysterious, safe but formidable. Lexa and Clarke are hushed by it, the rippling curve of the low roof and the press of the walls both pulling and pushing them through the semi-darkness towards the point of light at the end.

They emerge blinking into a huge open space, covered with lush grasses and low growing plants, almost a perfect circle surrounded by more, smaller cliffs. The sky stretches vast and blue above them. Late morning sun beats down. One path appears to hug the bottom of the cliffs, following the circle round, while another couple of paths crisscross the area. On one of these paths an ancient person wearing a long blood red robe and a woven grass hat with a wide brim, is sweeping the flat stones. They look up when they hear Lexa and Clarke approach.

 _“Hei, Nuri,"_ Lexa calls, smiling.

Nuri inclines their head in acknowledgement and leans on their broom. “Heda. Wanheda.” Their face is wizened as an apple stored over winter, but it breaks into a huge childlike grin. They bustle over and doff their hat with a flourish, so they can touch foreheads with Lexa.

Nuri makes a show of standing on tiptoe and dragging Lexa down by the shoulders until they can accomplish the greeting. They give Lexa’s nose a playful nuzzle before letting go.

“It has been too long, _nomontu_ ,” Lexa tells them, smiling but serious. 

“It has,” Nuri agrees, patting her arm. “I’m so glad you’re finally here.” They turn and beam at Clarke, including her. “Be welcome friends.”

Nuri and Clarke touch foreheads, formal but friendly. “Here child,” Nuri says, proffering their hat. “The day grows hot and by the looks of you, your need is greater than mine.”

“Thank you, Nuri,” Clarke says.

While Clarke jams the floppy hat onto her head, Nuri leans their broom against a bush bright with purple spear-shaped flowers. Freed from its covering Nuri’s fluffy white hair resembles nothing so much as a friendly cloud that came to visit their head one day and refused to leave. “I hear you are to be congratulated,” they say. “A successful trade agreement with my people is quite a coup.”

“Indeed.” Lexa nods. “We had some good fortune, a rare sacred creature appeared.”

“Yes…I heard about that. Very lucky.” Here, on their own ground, Nuri appears unburdened and content, somehow younger than they did when Lexa met them in Polis not long after her Ascension. But Lexa would venture they’re as sharp as ever. 

“Should we be thanking you?”

“Me? I have no idea what you’re talking about. My days of playing politics are over.”

“Of course.”

“Come,” Nuri says, beckoning, “now you have journeyed so far I will show you around. Quickly though, I think. You two have better things to do, and...” they gesture between Clarke and Lexa, “there is only so much of…this a person can witness.” 

“This, what?” Lexa protests.

“You know,” Nuri replies, setting off with a spring in their step.

~~*~~

The sanctuary is a thing of wonder. They make a circuit, passing the central grove of interwoven fire-trees, before processing past the brightly painted animal hides or wooden doorways which cover the entrances to various natural and manmade caves. On their way they meet a few others, some dressed in the blood red robes that mark them as belonging to this place, others who are clearly visitors too. All make signs of respect as they pass but no one bothers them.

Clarke is positively buzzing, excited and intrigued. Complimenting the art and the construction, the concepts. “This place is extraordinary,” she tells Nuri. “Special.”

“Yes, it is,” Nuri agrees. “But no more or less than any other.”

Clarke’s brows furrow. “Then…why do all this?”

Nuri shrugs, unconcerned. “Because for better or worse we are human, and sometimes we need to be reminded of what that means.” They stop walking and gaze about, as if seeing it all for the first or last time. Now their voice resonates with the cadences of storms, deep forests, the low roar of a consuming, welcoming fire, a sob of release. “Here we have made our home. Here we have sent fresh roots into the earth. Here the glow is visible. Here there are places for birth and death and little deaths,” they waggle their eyebrows, suddenly playful again, “and for soul friends. All human life is here.”

Clarke just nods.

When they get back to their starting place, Nuri plonks down cross-legged in the sun, produces a clay pipe from the folds of their robe and sets about lighting it, smiling to themselves. 

“ _Nomontu_ , may we?” Lexa asks.

“Yes. Yes.” Nuri nods and points a gnarled finger towards one of the caves. They make exaggerated shooing gestures, chuckling and affectionate. “Go. I will see you later. Much much later.”

~~*~~

The painted hide which covers the entrance falls closed with a heavy swish, granting Lexa and Clarke sanctuary from the world outside. Lexa’s heart is almost leaping from her chest. She tries to focus on Clarke’s hand in hers, the familiar pressure, the lines of her palm. This cave is medium sized, the walls glowing with subtle blue and green phosphorescence. It reminds her of the moths’ wings. As Lexa’s eyes adjust she realises the walls have been painted with luminous pigment, covered in abstract yet explicit pictures of humans of every shape and gender in every combination of the act of love. Clarke makes as startled but approving sound; releasing her grip on Lexa’s hand so she can move to examine the art more closely. Lexa feels her cheeks and the tips of her ears burn, and a rush of heat lower down.

On the low alter at the far end of the cave, two sweet beeswax lamps infused with herbs are burning, more for the scent than the need of extra light. Beside them is a simple clay figurine of the one they worship here. The stone floor has been worn smooth as a river pebble. There is a large rug, a mattress strewn with furs and blankets, a bowl and cloths for washing, and a pitcher Lexa knows will contain fresh spring water. 

Clarke turns to face her, and after all the waiting and longing and lusting of the past few days, Lexa is struck dumb with shyness. She thought she knew what she was doing bringing Clarke to this sacred place, but now her throat is dry, and her legs won’t work.

Standing in the glow cast from all around them, Clarke’s beauty is overwhelming, and Lexa feels utterly naked held in her gaze. “Lexa?” Clarke says, soft, head tilted slightly. _“Niron?”_

 _“Sha. Ait,”_ Lexa manages. 

She should have told Clarke, she should have told her all the things…and now her mind is blank, and her body is simply a well of desire and adoration. 

“Nuri, told me,” Clarke says. “They told me this place is special, a joining place?”

Lexa nods. She can do that. Nodding is good.

“You do remember we are already joined, love? You don’t have to do it again. You don’t have to prove anything to me, I know how you…” It’s Clarke’s turn to lose her words, to look away.

 _“Hodnes,”_ Lexa says, throat constricted and eyes stinging. “I may never give myself to you as fully as I wish I might. You understand as well as I do what it means to be a leader. But I want you to know that in every way, in every place, in every world, no matter what Heda may have to do, I am yours.”

Clarke moves now, comes to Lexa, cups her cheek. Lexa turns her head, kisses the palm of Clarke’s hand, noses the lines, whispers, “I’m yours.”

“And I’m…” but Clarke doesn’t get to finish what she was saying. Lexa is kissing her mouth. It’s a trembling, urgent, uncertain thing. It feels different here, witnessed by the ancient place. An echo and a promise. 

Lexa begins to regain her momentum, guides Clarke towards the nearest wall, presses her up against it. Clarke makes an eager sound and deepens the kiss, her hand in Lexa’s hair, a hint of her tongue teasing Lexa’s lips. They sway together. One of Lexa’s hands in the fine waves of Clarke’s hair where it’s dried with a slight curl, the other resting on her hip, squeezing, pulling them close. 

Lexa breaks the kiss, and Clarke groans, starts to protest, but only for a second as Lexa begins to kiss along her jawline, then down the side of her neck. Her lips find Clarke’s pulse, latch on sucking greedily. Clarke groans, offering more of her neck and beginning a slow grind against Lexa’s body. And Lexa – gods - she wants to worship. She wants to give everything in her, lay it out before her houmon. She frees her hands to begin a rapid exploration of Clarke’s body, sliding up over her belly, finding her breasts. It’s too much and not nearly enough. When the buttons stick she rips open Clarke’s shirt. Clarke gasps and whimpers, wriggles out of the offending garment, and rids herself of her bra. Lexa nips at her throat, palms her nipples.

Clarke begins working her own hands under the relatively simple clothes Lexa wore for their trip, but Lexa has other ideas. With one last half-bite at Clarke’s neck and one more squeeze of her breasts, she sinks to her knees before her, begins working to undo her belt and the buttons of her pants. Clarke tries to help, but Lexa gently places her hands back against the rock wall. Finally, Lexa manages to tug Clarke’s pants down with fingers gone clumsy with need. She leans into her, buries her face between Clarke’s legs and breathes, eyes closed and heart racing. Clarke’s scent surrounds her, sharp and intoxicating. Lexa’s mouth waters. The hot throb between her own legs is the sweetest kind of torture and acknowledgement. Clarke’s hips cant forwards, needy, and Lexa doesn’t try to draw this out, won’t wait another second to taste her, to lose herself in her. 

Lexa licks into Clarke, runs the flat of her tongue all along her length. The salt sweet flavour floods her mouth. Lexa shudders. Clarke groans long and loud, it echoes. Her hands wind into Lexa’s hair, tangle gently in her braids. Lexa licks up again, slow, paying close attention to every place, every taste and texture of the smooth hot skin. She traces patters, random at first then more precise, testing and remembering every twitch and judder of reaction. She almost smiles at the short hairs tickling her nose, but the warm rich scent has her moaning instead. She feels it everywhere. Lexa whines low in her throat, close to drooling as she explores Clarke’s folds – hands braced on Clarke’s trembling thighs, holding her against the wall. 

She is always surprised by her desire to be on her knees before this woman, how the feeling brings her peace rather than the shame she should feel. Heda bows to no one, but Lexa…Lexa wants and wants and wants and is not always denied. 

Clarke’s hands tug more insistently on the roots of Lexa’s hair, and Lexa cannot bring herself to continue her slow, worshipful exploration any longer. She licks into Clarke, full and urgent, thrusting her tongue as deep into Clarke’s cunt as she can; and is rewarded by an obscene sound of need and a rush of wetness over her lips and tongue and down her chin. Clarke’s hips begin a jerky grind against her face, and Lexa allows herself to get completely lost, sucking and lapping, reaching far inside. Her throat working to swallow, half suffocated in Clarke’s warmth. It’s a kind of bliss that overcomes her in these moments, focused on her lover; the ache between her own legs just an afterthought.

 

Clarke begins to beg and shudder; almost at the edge, desperate to plunge over it. Everything coalescing into a white-hot point of pleasure then expanding out and out. 

The tug of Clarke’s fingers, wound in Lexa’s hair, has turned to soothing pain. Yes, please love, more. The tensions of the last few weeks are leaving her body. This is her devotion - her knees on the cave floor, the joined labour of her breath shuddering with Clarke’s, her hands cupping Clarke’s ass, pulling her impossibly closer, her neck bent and straining back as she thrusts and laps and the warm heavy pulse fills her skin. This is all she wants.

Lexa withdraws her aching tongue, slides the tip over and around Clarke’s swollen clit. Clarke half screams above her, and jerks so hard Lexa’s teeth dig into the soft inside of her own lip. She tastes blood. Growls low, her fingers clenching hard enough to bruise. She chances a look up through the half-light. Clarke is a goddess – the perfect round of her belly, the swing of her full breasts held in shadows, her head thrown back, neck bared, her strong shoulders touched by the lights of the painting behind her, her hair sparking gold. Lexa holds her, circles, licks and teases the peak of her clit, over and over. She slides one hand from its place on Clarke’s ass, up her thigh and between her legs, strokes Clarke’s entrance with the tips of two fingers. 

_“Beja,”_ Clarke is murmuring. _“Beja.”_

Lexa enters her in a single smooth thrust, feels the way Clarke freezes then comes almost silently, feels the desperate sympathetic pulse between her own legs as she helps Clarke through the aftershocks. Lexa eases off then begins a slow pumping movement with her fingers crooked, stroking the place that makes Clarke weak and ferocious. Clarke spreads her stance as far as she can, still restricted by the pants gathered around her knees. Lexa speeds up, licking and sucking in rhythm with her strokes. Clarke comes again, quickly, with a guttural moan that breaks into a muffled scream. Lexa soothes her before withdrawing her fingers; then, reluctantly, lets Clarke guide her mouth away when she becomes too sensitive to withstand any more. Lexa kisses the insides of her thighs, strokes her hips with firm delicate fingers. Content. Rests her head there for Clarke to pet.

Before Lexa can stand from her daze, Clarke slides down the wall and fully into her arms, cups Lexa’s face in both hands, searching her eyes, before pulling her into a hungry kiss. She licks into her mouth with an urgency that leaves Lexa breathless and shaking. 

“Beautiful. So beautiful,” Clarke mutters as she grapples with Lexa’s clothes, pushing her backwards towards the bed. “These – off, now.”

Lexa has never undressed so fast in her life. Her shirt and pants go flying in opposite directions, and a now naked Clarke crawls on top of her, straddling her thighs, leaving a smear of delicious wetness. Clarke wriggles the last few inches up her body until their hips meet, the heat and sensation go straight to Lexa’s clit, she bucks beneath her. Clarke laughs quietly, looking down at her with such open love Lexa feels she may die of it. 

Everything is peaceful, held, embraced by the place. Candlelight gives the wall paintings the illusion of rippling movement. A dance.

Lexa and Clarke gaze at each other, understanding passes between them. Clarke begins to trace Lexa’s scars - as she so often has - with the hands of a healer and an artist, creating a map pricked onto her own heart. When she reaches the healed entry wound on Lexa’s abdomen she stops, lays her palm flat against it. “Thank you,” she says, finally, eyes shining with tears, “for being here. For staying with me.” Then she’s leaning in for more hurried, tender kisses, her hair hanging in a curtain around Lexa’s face, their breath shared. Lexa’s hands slide over Clarke’s back, over the tattoos she carries instead of kill scars. Their hips rock and grind together haphazard and needy. 

Clarke leans back, breathing deep. _“Ai hod yu in,”_ she says, capturing Lexa’s wrists and pinning them to the bed above her head, grip hard and unyielding. 

“I love you,” Lexa sighs. Relief flooding through her. Knuckles twitching against the furs.

“Lexa...” Clarke’s eyes gleam in a way that makes Lexa weak. “My Lexa.”

“Yours,” Lexa manages, the ache between her legs suddenly amplifying to the point of pain.

Clarke lets go of Lexa’s wrists, traces her fingers along the veins. Lexa whimpers, heart pounding against her ribs. Her body relaxed yet unravelling. The way Clarke is leaning forward has her breasts almost within kissing distance of Lexa’s face, of course it’s not an accident. “You want to?” Clarke says, all innocence.

_“Sha.”_

“Ask me then.”

“Your breasts, I want to…with my mouth.”

“Alright. Leave your hands where they are.”

Lexa must lift up a little in order to make contact. Her eyes fall closed as her nose and then her lips graze the soft heavy warmth. She moans. Clarke leans forward a fraction further so that Lexa doesn’t have to strain her neck, guides Lexa’s head back down to the bed with a hand in her hair. Clarke shifts to straddle her belly. Lexa kisses blindly across until she reaches a nipple. Clarke strokes the hinge of her jaw and makes an encouraging sound. Lexa rubs her lips over and around the hard peak, feeling the way it puckers, enjoying the little huffs of breath, the tiny shivers in Clarke’s muscles; but she doesn’t take it into her mouth quite yet. 

“Don’t tease,” Clarke grumbles, her fingers tracing down Lexa’s jugular, her thumb rounding the dip of Lexa’s throat, pressing pressing pressing, dangerous and gentle. Lexa loves to offer herself like this. She opens her mouth and takes Clarke inside – circling, flicking, suckling – delighting in Clarke’s muttered curse when she sucks and nips simultaneously; the way the pressure on her throat increases, holds for a moment that makes her arch up with a shuddering moan and a rush of wetness before it releases again. Clarke seems to take pity on her plight, rolls her body and nudges Lexa’s legs apart, slides a firm thigh between them, giving her something to rut urgently against. 

When Clarke’s hand continues its downward journey to one of Lexa’s own small breasts, palming expertly before pinching and rolling her nipple between finger and thumb, Lexa’s cry is only quiet because her mouth is already occupied. She bucks, frantic against Clarke and is rewarded by a hard roll of Clarke’s hips, and increased slickness on the thigh Clarke herself is riding. Clarke pinches and thrusts again, her nipple pressing on Lexa’s tongue, the weight of her breast on Lexa’s mouth and nose; the combined sensations have Lexa arching right off the bed. She’s close to coming, held back only by her longing to have Clarke inside her. She releases Clarke’s breast and tries to regain the power of speech. 

Clarke seems to understand. She slides a little further down Lexa’s body, so she can look into her eyes. It’s perfect, although the added friction and skin contact do nothing for Lexa’s thought processes. Clarke kisses her deep, then pulls back, teeth tugging kitten-soft at Lexa’s lower lip before releasing it. “Tell me what you need,” she says.

Lexa tries to form words but only manages a low whine and a thrust of her hips.

“Tell me,” Clarke says, gentle but insistent.

“Inside,” Lexa rasps, pleading.

Clarke slides her left hand down between their bodies, the pads of her fingers circle Lexa’s swollen clit for a few moments before she thrusts two inside her up to the knuckles. 

Lexa gasps, tears of relief spring to her eyes, her fists clench and release where she still holds her hands above her head.

Clarke begins to pump into her fast, the weight of her thigh behind her hand, her palm sliding slick against Lexa’s clit; and Lexa thinks she may pass out. “So perfect,” Clarke murmurs. “You feel so perfect. Fuck - I love being inside you.”

The pressure is building fast now, low down between her legs and in her belly, in the base of her spine, the cave of her chest, thick in her throat, white behind her eyes. Lexa feels Clarke so close, so deep that she could be within her own skin. Contained within this joining place they are connected in a way she has always longed for.

“Let me touch you, _niron_ ,” she gasps.

Clarke just nods and moans something encouraging, rutting with even greater abandon. Lexa can see the lights weaving around her, around both of them now. The glow of their bodies stretching out, melding together, and into the air and the earth, becoming, becoming…

She slides her hand between them, her arm slightly numb from its immobility, the angle a little awkward, but when she pushes two fingers, then three inside Clarke - knowing how she loves the stretch - Lexa doesn’t care about any of that. There is only the incredible heat of Clarke’s body surrounding her. The way that she’s lost track of whose limbs and whose breath and whose sounds these are. There is only them, nameless, and wonderful and so much greater than they have ever been. They are in an eternal place, fractal selves, fractal lives stretching and repeating in every direction forever. 

There is only the glow of them. 

They come. They come together. For a moment Lexa is not alone.

It cannot last of course. Slowly, Lexa drifts back to herself; but the sense of connection, of warmth does not fade entirely. They have been joined in a way beyond anything she ever dreamed of. They lie silent, sated and sticky, wrapped around each other in the afterglow. 

Finally, Clarke asks, “Is it bad that part of me just wants to stay here with you forever?”

“No, not bad. I also wish…” The words will not come. Lexa settles for dragging the covers over their cooling skin, hugging Clarke closer. “We may not be able to do that, but I think we will take it with us when we leave.”

“How long do we have until they expect us?” Clarke says, nestling.

Lexa smiles, kisses Clarke’s shoulder. “Many hours. We have the day to ourselves.”

“We do?”

_“Sha, ai hodnes.”_

Clarke’s grin is wonderful to behold. “In that case, we’re gonna need snacks.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading. 
> 
> Comments feed my soul and help me believe the hours I took writing this, and ignoring my adult responsibilities, were well spent :) Please feel free to come and yell about Clexa with me on Tumblr @liminalsmith.
> 
> Sorry for the lack of Trigedasleng translations, I'm tired. Really really tired. But, I did make up a couple of my own words for this fic:
> 
> Trippahsbru: a highly intoxicating mix of fermented honey and special mushrooms. Roughly derived from 'tripping balls brew'.
> 
> Nomontu: a mixture of the Trig words for mother and father. Can be used to address non-binary people.


End file.
